


no place like home (in the city that we love)

by littlesnowpea



Series: happily ever after (not the other way around) [4]
Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Ambiguous/Open Ending, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-Apocalypse, Time Travel, Wizard of Oz References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 11:17:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18659362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlesnowpea/pseuds/littlesnowpea
Summary: Patrick did not come to the apocalypse to get a crush.





	no place like home (in the city that we love)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunflashes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflashes/gifts).



> it’s so exciting to join the peterickcreationchallenge(s)! this one was ‘fairy tales’ and as i am a fan of repurposing fairy tales, this was right up my alley. i chose ‘the wizard of oz’, which is my favorite book/movie maybe ever. i’ll give you ten imaginary bucks if you guys can name what character represents whom in the original (patrick doesn’t count). 
> 
> title from ‘the wizard of oz’ and pompeii by bastille.
> 
> thank you to my beautiful baby doll sunflashes for the speedy and efficient beta. love you.
> 
> one day i'll write a fic without all three of these pairings at the same time but today is not that day.
> 
> enjoy!

Patrick became acutely aware of three things as he slowly woke up. 

One, his head was dropped at an awkward angle, causing a shooting pain up his neck. Two, his mattress was either suddenly hard as rocks or he’d fallen off the bed again. And three, his sluggish, sleep-filled brain was slowly informing him that that familiar scent in the air was actually smoke. 

His eyes snapped open. 

He must have fallen off his bed and was leaning weirdly against the frame. The room was pitch black, so the power must have been out. Patrick was a little ashamed of his guitar shaped night light, something he probably shouldn’t need at the tender age of twenty seven, but his apartment was not in the best part of Chicago and he was still a little afraid of the dark. 

He rolled his shoulders, wincing a little, before pushing himself to his feet, squinting against the darkness. He saw a window, which was definitely _not_ his bedroom window, not based on the position and size. This window seemed more like the window of a prison--narrow, not big enough to climb through. Patrick was surprised to see it didn’t have bars. 

The smell of smoke was getting stronger, and though the window, Patrick saw orange light. Both those things plus his asthma kicking in told him he needed to get the fuck out, _now,_ so he carefully crept towards the window.

His foot caught on something and he hit the ground hard, knocking the breath out of him. He groaned a little and yelped as whatever he’s tripped over groaned, too. 

A lighter flicked on, illuminating short red hair, narrowed, angry eyes, and enough tattoos to make Patrick’s mother cry. 

Patrick held up his hands in self-defense.

“You can take anything you want,” he said. “Except my guitars, please leave my guitars. And don’t hurt me. Please.”

“Dude,” the guy said grumpily. “I don’t know where the fuck you found drugs but lay off them. Jesus. Why are you even awake?”

“I smelled smoke,” Patrick said timidly, hands still up in surrender. The angry man took a deep breath, frowning, before clicking the lighter again, plunging the room into darkness for a brief moment before Patrick heard a low buzzing and three lamps clicked on. They were industrial type lamps, the big, orange ones with the grates over them and bulbs so bright it hurt to look at. 

They were also illuminating a room that was definitely, definitely not his. 

“Holy crap,” Patrick said under his breath, before frantically thinking: _If this is a fucking prank, I’m gonna kill all of them._

“Up. There’s fire,” the angry, red haired man snapped to the dozen or so men all _camped out around what used to be Patrick’s bedroom._ Patrick stared at them, slack jawed, until the angry man poked him in the chest. “You. Who are you.”

“Um,” Patrick said, which wasn’t reassuring. “I’m Patrick? I live here? Or I did, before I woke up and you all were here.”

“Woke up?” the angry man asked, sounding less angry and more confused. 

“Andy, dude, there’s fire,” another man said from behind the angry man. “Can you interrogate the twink when we’re less likely to burn to death?”

Patrick flushed hard, which was not the best reaction, but Andy just groaned and scooped a _gun up off the floor._

Patrick had never touched a gun before in his _life._

“Here,” Andy grunted. “You do know how to use this, right?”

“No?” Patrick asked. 

“How the hell did you wind up on the front lines then?” Andy demanded. “Move, hurry, Jesus. Don’t let this one get shot, he wandered out of Mommy’s house to a battleground.”

Patrick had no time to argue, just stumbled after the men. They were all dressed in black tactical gear, with bulletproof vests and combat books, making Patrick’s bare feet and Batman pajamas seem a little out of place. 

“There has been a _terrible_ mistake,” Patrick mumbled, but no one was listening. 

Outside, the street Patrick once lived on was decimated. What wasn’t lying in crumbled ruins was on fire-- bright, hot flames licking the sky, sending smoke and ash into the air and coating Patrick’s lungs. He coughed, and flinched as Andy raised his gun at him. 

“No, behind you,” Andy snapped, and Patrick jumped away in time for Andy to fire his gun. People Patrick’s hadn’t seen before were at the end of the street, several with flamethrowers in their hands. 

A couple fired back at Andy and Patrick flinched, allowing Andy to hustle him down the street, under cover fire provided by the rest. 

“You are going to tell me, in excruciating detail, how the hell you ended up at my camp,” he hissed directly into Patrick’s ear. “You clearly don’t belong here, even if you weren’t wearing children’s pajamas.”

“I got them in the men’s section at Target,” Patrick protested, but let Andy drag him down the street. 

\-----

“So you’re telling me,” Andy said later, much later, at a different camp, seated around a campfire. Someone somewhere had scrounged up a spare set of horrifying black military gear, including shoes, which his feet were glad for, so Patrick felt a little more able to be taken seriously. “That you went to bed last night and everything was perfectly fine and then you time traveled, waking up here in the middle of the Second Civil War?”

“I guess?” Patrick said hesitantly, acutely aware of the more than several pairs of curious eyes staring at him. He’d never said time traveled, but whatever. “I mean. There hasn’t been a Second Civil War yet, so. I guess.”

“Yet?” someone else piped up. “What do you mean, yet?”

“I mean, obviously there is one,” Patrick pointed out. “If this is really the future, or whatever. Unless I didn’t time travel at all and this is actually just an alternate dimension.”

“I think that still counts as time traveling,” someone said. 

“I don’t think that’s the point,” Joe replied snidely.

“What year is it?” Andy asked, ignoring them both, in an uncomfortably interested tone. 

“It’s twenty--”

“ _Not_ you, idiot,” Andy hissed, elbowing whoever had spoken. “You. Mystery boy.”

“My name’s Patrick,” Patrick repeated. “Um. It’s 2013?”

“Jeeeesus Christ,” Andy breathed, matching the tone of the exclamations around him. Patrick panicked internally a little, raising an eyebrow. 

“What?” he asked defensively. “Have I _really_ time traveled?”

He meant it as a joke, because time travel _wasn’t real,_ but apparently, no one else did.

“You sure fucking have,” someone behind Andy said. “Andy. Christ. He time traveled here and wound up on the front lines?”

“Evidently,” Andy said. 

“What year is it here?” Patrick said, alarmed. 

No one answered right away until the man who’d spoken sat beside Andy and rested his chin on his hand. 

“It’s 2033,” he said. Patrick very abruptly felt like fainting. 

“2033,” he said weakly. “But, no, but I can’t be here. I can’t, I have to get back, I have _lessons--”_

“Do you think Pete could help?” the second man said again, and Andy glanced at him. 

“Probably,” he breathed, punching him in the arm in the kind of good-natured bro-ish way Patrick had never been able to get the hang of. “You’re a goddamn genius, Travie.”

“I know,” Travie said cheerfully. “Pete solves everything.”

“Not _everything,”_ someone muttered from the left. Travie threw them the finger without looking at them. They scowled harder. 

“Grow a heart, Trohman,” Travie said. Andy fixed the one Travie called Trohman with a soft, pleading look, completely foreign to his whole persona up until then. 

“Joe,” he said, and Trohman sighed. 

“Look,” he said, speaking frankly and directly to Andy, ignoring the rest, who were mostly rolling their eyes at this point. “You believe this. Really, you believe this?”

“Do you have a better explanation as to how someone so unsuited to our military shows up in the middle of the night?” Andy asked. “In kid’s pajamas that I’m pretty sure haven’t been made since before the war?”

“Yeah,” Joe said, narrowing his eyes. “I do. It’s called a _trap._ You think Urie’s not capable of tricking us?”

“I think this is a fairly sophisticated trap for Urie to accomplish,” Andy said dryly. “If he can sneak a spy in under our noses without waking any of us, why would he go out of his way to make the spy obvious?”

Joe didn’t say anything but his expression didn’t change. Travie sighed. 

“Hey,” he said. “Let’s just bring him to Pete. You know Pete knows the future. He would know if Patrick--”

“Don’t name it.”

“Was a trap,” Andy finished louder. 

“I’m not convinced on Pete, either,” Joe muttered. 

“No,” Travie said. “He’s right about absolutely everything by chance.”

“Okay, let’s not fight about it,” Andy said, with a tone in his voice that suggested they had this argument often. “Let’s just decide what we’re doing. Pete is the best option, Joe.”

“Fine,” Joe said. He still looked skeptical and unhappy, but he seemed to be used to conceding. “We’ll take him to Pete, then. But if he turns out to be one of Urie’s, don’t come crying to me.”

“I never do,” Andy said shortly, then, to Patrick: “What was your name again?”

“Patrick,” Patrick repeated hesitantly. He felt like a parrot. “Who’s Urie?”

Andy swore and Travie made the sign of the cross as soon as Patrick asked, which didn’t bode well. A dark look crossed Joe’s face and he shot Andy a glare and folded his arms, as if Patrick’s question proved something. What it proved, Patrick wasn’t sure, but Patrick was also scared shitless. 

“Urie’s the goddamn Devil,” Travie said. That didn’t make Patrick feel better at _all._ Andy, however, was nodding vehemently. Patrick didn’t know. He’d woken up more than twenty years in the future, so anything was possible. Maybe Urie was a literal devil. Maybe the Catholics were right after all. 

“Okay,” Patrick said slowly. “And Pete?”

“Pete’s the leader,” Travie said, voice devoid of fear and full of eagerness, now. That only served to make Patrick feel worse. The flip flop from _evil devil person_ to an apparent Godlike persona only served to hammer home how utterly ridiculous this whole situation was.

Patrick very firmly told himself that he’d had enough. It was time to wake up now. 

\-----

Turned out that cars were not a thing of the past. 

Well, the cars Patrick was used to were. There was no sign of his ‘92 Corolla, that was for sure, but the Hummer he’d been directed to was familiar enough. It ran a lot smoother than Patrick was used to and he didn’t see a steering wheel, but he was trying to ignore that. It was his go-to response: ignoring everything that reminded him that he woke up in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

They didn’t stop at some sort of fortress or enclave that Patrick expected to house the leader of the end of the world, but they did stop at a fairly ordinary looking house, something Patrick would have walked past without a second thought if the rest of the street wasn’t in ruins. He trailed after Andy up to the front door, acutely aware of the heavy stare Joe had on him at every moment. 

Patrick probably wouldn’t trust Joe either, if the situations were reversed. Couldn’t really blame him. Patrick still wasn’t sure if this was real or not. It felt more like an elaborate dream. Either that or someone was playing the world’s most elaborate prank on him.

“Decaydance,” Andy said, and the door swung open. Huh. Some sort of password, evidently. 

“You’re here,” a woman said. She was tall and lean, with dark hair back in a severe bun and a harsh stare on her face that suggested she was not to be messed with. At all.

“Well spotted,” Joe said, and Andy smacked him without even looking at him. 

“We need to see Pete,” Andy said, with a lot more diplomacy. “Something’s come up.”

“What kind of something?” the woman asked suspiciously. Andy glanced at Patrick.

“A time traveling kind of something,” he replied. The woman’s face shifted almost imperceptibly as she glanced from Andy to Patrick with an unreadable look on her face. Abruptly, she turned and beckoned. 

“He won’t like this,” she warned, and Andy elbowed Joe as he snorted. 

“It’s urgent,” was all Andy replied with. Patrick felt sick, not that anyone appeared ready to stop and consider his feelings at all in any of this. 

The inside of the house was lit with the same kind of lights as Patrick’s old bedroom. Patrick guessed that the low buzzing was some kind of generator. He didn’t know why it didn’t occur to him until now that there was probably no power in this...future. 

Oh wait. He knew why it didn’t occur to him. Because this whole thing was absolutely insane. 

“An unscheduled meeting?” someone said, and Andy’s hand on Patrick’s wrist halted him in his tracks. “You know how I feel about those.”

“Yes, sir,” Andy said respectfully. “However we thought you might want to know about the man that evidently time traveled here from 2013.”

“Time traveled?” the voice seemed surprised and a little on edge at that, and a man stepped into view. He had long hair slicked back and his hands were clasped in front of him. He was dressed in the same military black garb that they all were, but his disposition suggested that he was in charge and he knew it. “How do you know?”

“It was what he said,” Joe said, unimpressed. “I would like it to be known that I think this is all bullshit.”

“Duly noted,” the man said. “However, let me make my own decision. What’s your name?”

Patrick knew the man was addressing him, he didn’t need the elbow Andy threw into his side. He took a deep, somewhat steadying breath.

“Patrick,” he said finally. “I woke up here. I don’t mean to do anything. I just want to get home.”

“This ain’t your home,” the man said. “You don’t even look like you belong here.”

“I’m trying not to think about that,” Patrick replied, before he could help himself. “They said Pete can get me home.”

“Maybe,” the man said. “I make no promises. I’m Pete.”

Oh. Made sense.

“Hi,” Patrick said dumbly. Well, he couldn’t help it. Time travel or not, he still had eyes in his head that worked, and they couldn’t look away from Pete. 

Oh, goddamnit. This was so not fair. Patrick’s unconscious was playing a cruel, cruel joke on him. 

That was _it._ Patrick could wake up any moment now, nice and secure in his apartment, content with his chronic singleness. He did not come to the apocalypse to get a crush. 

To be fair, he didn’t choose to come to the apocalypse at all, but that was irrelevant. 

“Hi,” Pete replied, cutting into Patrick’s semi-hysterical internal monologue. “So you woke up here.”

“If you expect us to believe that,” Joe said darkly. 

“Thanks for your input,” Pete retorted. 

“Sorry for worrying about our safety with a maniac like Urie out for blood every chance he gets,” Joe said hotly. 

“Even Urie can’t pull off a stunt like this,” Pete said, but there was an interesting note of doubt in his voice. Well, interesting if Patrick wasn’t scared out of his mind, that was. “So you want to get home.”

“Yes,” Patrick said, then, before he could stop himself: “I have lessons.”

“Fascinating,” Pete said. “How am I supposed to get you home?”

“I don’t know,” Patrick said. “You’re supposed to know everything.”

The ghost of a smile crossed Pete’s face as he tilted his head to the side, clearly considering, looking Patrick up and down like he was some sort of prized specimen. It was a distinctly uncomfortable look. Pete was still unfairly hot. 

“There might be a way I can help you,” he announced, and Patrick’s heart leapt in relief. “But it’s risky and I need to be sure Joe isn’t right about you. You’ll have to prove yourself.”

“Sure,” Patrick said immediately. “Sure, whatever, anything, as long as I can go home.”

Pete raised an eyebrow. Patrick took it to mean he was impressed, which meant nothing to Patrick as long as he was stuck here. 

“I seriously doubt you’re anything but what you say you are,” Pete said. “But just in case. One thing you have to do in order for me to feel secure in sending you back after you’ve seen something no one from your time period is supposed to see is this: kill Urie.”

Patrick blinked, mind short circuiting. His shock was seemingly echoed by Andy and Joe, but his mind was filled with static white noise as he tried to comprehend what Pete had just said. 

“Kill Urie?” Andy demanded. “He’ll never make it.”

“Even if he does, he’ll never make it out alive,” Joe pointed out. “Which is kind of important considering he’s allegedly doing this to be sent home.”

“Kill Urie?” Patrick echoed faintly. “Why--why do you think _I_ can _kill_ \-- you know what, never mind.”

He pointed one shaking finger at Pete, hoping he sounded calm, despite being nowhere near it in reality. 

“I don’t trust you,” he said, and surprise crossed Pete’s face. “You can comprehend how ridiculous this all seems to me, right?” 

“Sure,” Pete said, raising an eyebrow.

“So you want to send me to kill your mortal enemy or whatever,” Patrick said. “While knowing it’s an impossible task that might very well get me killed. If you wanted to get rid of me, there are easier ways.”

“It’s not that,” Pete said defensively. 

“Yeah?” Patrick said. “Prove it.”

“How on Earth do you expect me to prove it?” Pete asked, clearly taken aback. 

“The same way you expect me to prove myself,” Patrick said firmly. “If I have to go on a suicide mission, you do too. I’m not going to do stupid shit that will get me killed unless I know that you’re coming along for the ride and you don’t intend on backing out of the deal.”

It was stupid, everything he was saying was stupid and on a whim and based on his knowledge of a goddamn children’s book and not on whatever reality Patrick was living in, but fuck if he had any better ideas. He meant it: he wasn‘t walking into a deathtrap without making sure the guy who apparently knew everything wasn’t gonna backstab him. 

Pete stared at him for a long, agonizing second, before folding his arms and sighing. 

“Fine,” he said, and Patrick barely refrained from taking an actual, step back in shock. “Fine. You'll have a higher chance of success if I come along, anyway. I’ll show you I don’t intend for you to get killed.”

Patrick doubted that _very_ much, but he decided to be magnanimous and let it slide. Andy clapped his hands together. 

“Great!” he said. “Suicide mission. When do we start?”

“Who said _we're_ going?” Travie said nervously. Andy grinned, slightly twisted and eager.

“I did,” he said. “So what's the plan?”

\-----

The plan, it turned out, was far more straightforward than Patrick thought. 

“Urie's last known location is here,” Pete said, indicating a point on the map that Patrick tentatively labeled “very remote”. “It's hard to get to. We'll have to get around the lake without detection, and that's not even considering the fact that the roads past the lake are a mess and completely undrivable. I'd estimate that a good five miles are on foot. We need someone who knows the area.”

Patrick relabeled Urie's camp as essentially Narnia as Andy spoke up. 

“How about Smith?” he asked. “The fight has moved beyond the lake, but up until last week, the lake was ground zero.”

“That battle did take Ignarro's life,” Pete said. “He'd have a grudge to settle for sure. And he _is_ the best we've got.”

“I have some thoughts,” Joe said, and, based on his expression, they weren't good ones. “You really want to rip your general from the fight after Urie gained so much ground just so we can go on a ridiculous suicide missions with this little kid over here?”

“I’m twenty-seven,” Patrick said, but Joe ignored him. 

“I think bringing along someone as skilled and knowledgeable as Smith is a good thing,” Travie said. “For our safety, if nothing else.”

“Yes, we know you're scared,” Joe said, rolling his eyes. “But I wasn't asking if it was safe, I was asking if it's wise.”

“I say it is,” Pete said calmly. “We need a guide and Smith is the best choice. I see only positive outcomes.”

Travie beamed and Joe scowled as Patrick tried desperately not to laugh. Really? Seeing the future? That was the gimmick Pete was going for? Granted, Patrick hadn't quite figured out what Pete had done to gain so much respect and deference, but Patrick was pretty sure it wasn't psychic abilities. Patrick may have time traveled here, things might have been completely batshit and out of his control, but Patrick drew a hard line at believing psychics were somehow real now. 

“So Smith comes along,” Andy said. “And guides us. And then what’s the plan? Patrick goes in alone? One of us goes with him? How do we know the job’s completed?”

“Oh, when there’s mass panic from his side, that’ll be a pretty good indicator,” Joe said. 

“Mass panic from what?”

“Oh, hello, Smith,” Pete said, without looking up. “I knew you’d come. Please, sit, we have a mission we’d like you to lead.”

“I’m all ears,” Smith said, glancing curiously at Patrick before stepping forward. 

Smith was dressed like everyone Patrick had seen so far: black military style clothes and combat boots. Smith was also holding a very large gun, which made Patrick uneasy, and a belt full of what looked like sheathed knives. He looked like one of Patrick’s night terrors from when he was like, eight. 

“This is Patrick,” Pete said, indicating Patrick. “He somehow appeared here. The group remains divided on if he’s a spy for Urie or a genuinely lost soul somehow sent here for some reason.”

 _The group remains divided_ was an interesting way of saying everyone believed Patrick but Joe, but Patrick kept his mouth shut. 

“A spy for Urie?” Smith said, a strange tone in his voice. “That’s not Urie’s style. They’re never men.”

“I know that,” Pete said. “However, to reassure everyone, we’re going on a mission where Patrick can prove his worth so we can figure out how to send him home.”

“I’m all ears,” Smith said. “What’s the mission?”

“Assassination,” Joe said, before anyone could cut in. “We’re sending him to kill Urie. Which, if it succeeds, which it won’t, will seriously boost us, and we need it.”

“Killing Urie?” Smith said, and that tone was back again. Patrick tried to carefully look Smith up and down. His hands were clasped behind his back, and his grip was too tight to be comfortable. There were faint, strained lines by his eyes, and his mouth was thin. None of this gave Patrick a better clue about who, exactly, Smith was. “That doesn’t seem realistic.”

“Thank you,” Joe muttered. 

“Realistic or not, it’s a good time,” Pete said. “I feel it. But we need someone who knows the area. Someone who knows the way to and from Urie’s camp like the back of their hand.”

Smith straightened up, a strange look on his face this time, one of what looked like desperation, maybe, if Patrick had to name it. 

“I can do it,” Smith said. “You know I’m the most qualified.”

“I do,” Pete said, nodding. “I knew you would say yes.”

Patrick didn’t know how much more of Pete’s fake psychic abilities he could take, to be honest, but Smith seemed to buy it hook, line, and sinker. So did the rest, so he tried to stay quiet. He was trying his hardest to not make an impression, especially a bad one, because he wanted to maximise his chances of being considered useless and thus, being sent home. 

“So when do we start?” Andy asked. 

“The sooner the better,” Pete said, then glanced at Patrick in clear unease. “I’m afraid that if Patrick is here longer, things could be seriously messed up.”

Oh, Patrick could see the bullshit in that from _miles_ away, but everyone else made the appropriate concerned noises and nodded, wide-eyed, at each other, so Patrick seemed to be at a disadvantage here. 

As Smith and Pete leaned back over the map, Patrick very firmly told himself that any time he wanted to wake up would be cool, really. He’d had about as much as he could take from this neverending nightmare.

\-----

 _As soon as possible_ turned into _that night_ , and Patrick found himself back in the Hummer for an uncomfortable, bumpy ride. Travie was on his left, somehow _asleep_ of all things, and Pete was on his right, fixing him with occasional searching stares. 

It was on the fifth such stare that Patrick snapped. 

“Look, I don’t know what your game is,” he hissed underneath the sound of the tires bouncing on the cracked road and snatches of pop music Patrick didn’t recognize between long stretches of static. “I don’t know how you got them to listen to you, but you gotta give it to me straight. Who’s Urie?”

“I got them to listen to me because I know the future,” Pete said evenly. “I know the future the same way you’re here right now.”

“That makes zero sense.”

“It’s the truth.”

Patrick stared back at Pete before huffing out a frustrated sigh and rubbing his eyes tiredly. 

“I’m not, like, eight,” he said scathingly. “I don’t believe in magic anymore.”

“It’s not magic,” Pete said. “Not really.”

“You are the most infuriating person I’ve ever met,” Patrick said. “Would it kill you to give me a straight answer?”

“You’re one to talk,” Pete said. “You’re not telling me the whole story. How about this: you tell me the truth and I’ll tell you the truth. Deal?”

Patrick stared at him. He had no clue what Pete was talking about. Well, obviously he thought Patrick was hiding something, which wasn’t true, but he did at least confirm Patrick’s suspicions that Pete was, in fact, full of shit. Which Patrick already _knew,_ but it was nice to have some confirmation.

“How long is the drive?” he asked, instead of challenging. Pete cleared his throat, settling back in his seat.

“Variable,” he replied. He was such a dick. 

“Which means?” Patrick asked. 

“It means it depends,” Smith said from the driver’s seat. “If they still have blockades up, it could take several days going around them. If the roads are bad, it could take even longer. So it really depends.”

“Well, that’s not a good start,” Andy said, and Patrick sat up straight, straining to see over everyone’s heads out the front window. It was difficult to see without cramming an elbow in Travie’s side or a not-so-accidental tug of Pete’s hair, but he managed. 

It was pitch black outside, the only light the stars and the Hummer’s headlights, which illuminated what seemed to be an enormous pile of junk. Bits of twisted metal, broken concrete, wood pieces, all piled high and blocking the road. It stretched on as far as Patrick could see both ways and it was seriously unnerving. 

Smith began reversing and Patrick twisted to look behind the car. It was even harder to see, the red of the brake lights and the white reverse indicators made the badly paved street look like a crime scene. On either side of the road were ruins of houses, suburbia that once was, and Patrick was so distracted it took a moment to notice what was off. 

“Stop!” he shouted, and Smith hit the brakes almost on impulse. “There’s a person!”

“There’s a _what?”_ Smith demanded.

“Why the hell would you panic us, god--” Joe muttered, but Smith abruptly threw the car into _drive_ and took a hard right, bumping over the rocky driveway of the ghost of a house, plowing through the white picket fence and swerving around a half-standing garage. Patrick twisted around again, searching for the person, finding no one.

“It’s a trap,” Smith seethed. “You! You brought us to a trap!”

“No, I--” Patrick tried, but Joe, of all people, cut him off. 

“Not a trap,” he said tiredly. “Just some of Urie’s men patrolling their _hard earned_ border.”

 _Hard earned_ was said with such scorn Patrick had to wonder what had transpired for Urie to gain that land. Nothing good, if the look on Joe’s face said anything. The Hummer bumped across the remains of another fence before turning onto the road again, the barricade to their back. 

“New plan,” Pete said, remarkably calm. “We go to our second choice route. It takes longer, but hey, it’s a new route.”

“Would it kill you to act concerned?” Smith asked, and Pete shrugged. 

“It might,” he said easily, before nudging Patrick. “Congrats, kid. You survived your first close call.”

“Second,” Patrick corrected. “And I’m not a kid.”

Pete raised an eyebrow and Andy piped up.

“Urie’s guys chased us out,” he said. “Right when Patrick made his appearance.”

Pete looked at Patrick again, cocking his head, a scary look of interest on his face. Patrick tried not to squirm in discomfort, but it was a close call. On his right, Travie jerked awake. 

“What?” he asked sleepily. “What did I miss?”

“Could you stay awake?” Joe asked. “Like, at any point?”

“Well no one died,” Travie yawned. “So I was obviously not of use.”

“Oh, just this time you weren’t of use?” Joe said, and Andy smacked his arm.

“Alright, that’s enough,” he said loudly. “Let’s focus on what’s next. Route two.”

“And if route two works?” Travie asked.

“Then it’s phase two,” Smith said, and that weird tone was back in his voice. 

“Phase two,” Patrick repeated. “Okay then.”

He sat back and tried very hard not to think about how phase two involved a gun in his hand and a murder on his conscience. It had to be a dream, after all. Killing someone in a dream didn’t count, and even if he somehow _had_ actually time traveled here, he could probably leave actual murder in the past--future--when he left?

Right?

\-----

“No, really,” Pete said, despite Patrick snorts of barely concealed laughter. “No, really, I wish it was 2013.”

“It has its advantages over now,” Patrick said, grinning. “I’ll give it that.”

“What did you do?” Pete asked, and Patrick was taken aback at the abrupt question. “Like, before.”

“Before I showed up here?” Patrick asked wryly. “I taught music lessons.”

“Music lessons?” Pete asked, surprised. “You’re so desperate to return to a life of giving kids music lessons?”

“And adults,” Patrick said defensively. “And, yeah, maybe it wasn’t the most glamorous life, or whatever, but I miss it, you know? It was _my life_. I didn’t have to worry about the streets falling apart or the city in ruins around me--well, the streets were pretty similar, but you get my point.”

“I do,” Pete said. 

“And you?” Patrick asked, and Pete’s eyes widened. “What about you?”

“That was twenty years ago,” Pete shrugged. “I was a baby.”

“A baby?” Patrick asked, leaning back to size Pete up. Patrick was no good at math, he knew that, but Pete didn’t look much younger than 35. There was no way Pete was even 21, which meant he was lying. About what and why, Patrick wasn’t sure. “How old are you?”

“It’s complicated,” Pete said quickly, expression clear that he regretted saying anything. “It’s really just complicated, and it doesn’t matter, anyway. We’re here, this is the time I live, it’s over.”

“The time you live?” Patrick asked slowly. “What do you mean, the time you live? Did you live in another time before this?”

Pete looked uncomfortable, shifty, tense like he wanted to run. He opened his mouth to say something, Patrick didn’t know what, but was saved by the Hummer coming to a halt and Smith’s voice. 

“It’s walking time,” Smith announced. “Buddy up.”

Travie glommed onto Smith like his life depended on it, looking around him like at any moment, something could kill him. Patrick assumed Joe would be with Andy, which left--

“It’s you and me,” Patrick said firmly. “You _will_ give me answers.”

“I will when you will,” Pete repeated, and took off ahead of Patrick, leaving Patrick to swear and beat it to catch up. 

The sun was rising, bright in his eyes, and it was ungodly hot. Patrick couldn’t ever remember mornings being this hot, especially by the lake, but maybe this was the way things were now. The rest seemed used to it, Andy and Smith even wearing sunglasses, so Patrick didn’t say anything. 

He’d been to Lake Michigan lots of times, as a kid and as an adult, but the Lake Michigan he’d gone to was not the Lake Michigan they were walking the shores of. This Lake Michigan wasn’t bright blue with pristine beaches filled with beautiful people. This Lake Michigan was dark and dirty, with trash floating in patches so thick Patrick couldn’t see the water, if that was water. The shores were littered with rubble, like bombs had fallen close by, making any path impossible to drive through. In the distance, the skyscrapers of Patrick’s beloved city were all but gone, husks and ruins with broken glass glinting in the sunrise. 

The air was devoid of sound--no birds, no traffic, nothing. Just….nothing. 

Patrick shivered, increasing his pace until he was side by side with Pete. Even if Pete was a giant liar, he knew this Chicago. Patrick only knew his Chicago. 

“What happened?” he asked. It was the first time he attempted this question, too afraid of the answer. Now, though, surrounded by the complete ruins of the city he loved, he had to know. He had to. “What the _hell_ happened, Pete?”

Pete looked at him with uncharacteristic solemness. It made a chill go through Patrick--Pete’s eyes were serious, calm, the kind of eyes seen in soldier’s coming back from war, in the faces of people who have seen too much and coped too little. 

“War happened,” he said, gesturing around them. “War. One side blue, one side red. It came and went in a flurry of guns and bombs and by the time it ended, nothing was left to claim as a prize.”

“Came and went?” Patrick whispered. “But--but they said battle. They said--”

“The fighting is not related to the war,” Pete said. “It’s related to territory. It’s just what’s left fighting what’s left.”

“And the blue and red?” Patrick asked. He wasn’t an idiot, he knew what Pete was referencing. He just couldn’t bring himself to say anything but that. 

Pete stared down at him, hoisting a gun up on his shoulder. 

“There are no more blue or red,” Pete said. “The war took 90% of the population. And the 10% that’s left just fight. There isn’t humanity anymore. It died when Americans dropped bombs on themselves.”

Patrick didn’t know what to say. Evidently, Pete didn’t expect him to say anything, because he wordlessly looked back in front of him and kept walking, a few feet behind Smith and Travie and a few feet ahead of Andy and Joe. 

“Where do we go from here?” Patrick finally managed to ask. “I mean, you say you see the future. What future do you see?”

“Something worse,” Pete said, not looking at Patrick, expression twisting. “Something god-awful and worse. No food. People killing each other just to have something to eat. People killing each other for any little reason you can think of. Babies, when they are born--dead. It’s a future of nothing and a future of worse. That’s what I see.”

Pete’s voice was raw and open, honestly bleeding out so obviously that, for the first time, Patrick thought Pete might actually know what the future held. That just maybe he did know something. Patrick just didn’t know how. 

“What happens after that?” Patrick asked, voice cracking. “I mean, what do you see after the worse future?”

Pete smiled, but it was half sick and half angry, more of a grimace than a smile, grip tightening on his gun. 

“I see nothing,” he said. “Blessed, blessed nothing.”

Patrick believed him.

\-----

The city stretched on. Patrick never appreciated how big Chicago was until he had no choice but to walk it. 

Pete was a silent partner next to Patrick, throwing cautious looks at Patrick, then at the rest, like he knew something everyone else didn’t. That wasn’t such a stretch, really, since Pete evidently made a name for himself by knowing things others didn’t, but it was unnerving nonetheless. It was like Pete was waiting for something bad to happen. 

They’d been walking for a day and a half, spending one long and terrifying night in the ruins of a building, everyone but Patrick taking turns keeping an eye out. Not that Patrick slept at all. He still wasn’t convinced this wasn’t all an elaborate prank. 

“Could you maybe use your words?” Patrick asked, exasperated, on the tenth or eleventh weird look Pete threw him. “Seriously. I’m as lost as anyone, I don’t know anything, stop assuming I do.”

“It’s not you,” Pete said in an undertone. “Well, at least I doubt it is.”

“Thanks,” Patrick said shortly. “You’re incredibly helpful.”

“I know the future,” Pete said. “It doesn’t mean I like it.”

“Okay, stop,” Patrick said. “I buy the fact you somehow know the future, you’ve made that evident. I refuse to believe you’re a psychic. Stop bullshitting me.”

“I never said I was a psychic,” Pete whispered, unnervingly calm. “That’s just what they all assumed and I didn’t correct it. It was a good cover for why I knew everything without telling the truth.”

“Telling the truth?” Patrick hissed, acutely aware of Pete trying to keep the volume down. “So now you’re telling the truth?”

“Sort of,” Pete said quietly, glancing around. “I’m mostly hoping you’ll work it out yourself. You did _time travel_ here, right?”

Pete put a weird emphasis on _time travel,_ like it was supposed to mean something different to Patrick, and Patrick just stared at Pete with slowly mounting irritation. 

“Allegedly,” Patrick replied. “Or so they all tell me. I have no idea how I got here. I went to sleep in 2013. I woke up in actual hell. If time travel is the explanation, fine. Whatever. As long as time travel gets me _home.”_

“I think it might,” Pete said, and, before Patrick could further interrogate him, Smith spoke up.

“Guns at the ready,” he said. Everyone raised their guns. Patrick, having zero clue how to use a gun and thus not carrying one, looked around for any sign of impending danger.

“Urie?” Travie asked nervously, stepping closer to Smith.

“No,” Smith said. “This is just a scavenger’s plot. It’d be best if we avoided prolonged contact.”

“I want it noted that I didn’t want to come along,” Travie pointed out, and Smith glared at him. 

“No one fucking cares,” Smith said. “Pete? Anything?”

For the first time, Patrick saw a flash of uncertainty and nervousness cross Pete’s face, like maybe Pete _didn’t_ have an answer, for once. He seemed to be grappling for what to say until his gaze landed on Patrick and he looked a little relieved. 

“We have to be careful,” he said. “Patrick being here is interrupting my vision. Like I said, he needs to be gone, pronto. Proceed with caution.”

“Clear,” Smith said. It really wasn’t, and Patrick could not believe nobody could see through Pete’s absolute horse shit, but it didn’t seem like a good time to argue. 

The air was eerily still, the only sounds their footsteps on cracked asphalt that a sign said once was Belmont Street. Patrick was getting used to seeing ruins where houses were. He closed his eyes and did the math-- Wrigley was up north a few blocks, De Paul south a little further. He wondered if either were still standing. 

Based on what limited things Patrick could recognize, they’d made it about a mile west of Lake Shore. They should be traveling faster, they should be further after so long walking, but they’d had to navigate between roadblocks and danger and Patrick was exhausted. He wanted to stop, but he understood stopping was dangerous. 

Maybe he wasn’t cut out for the apocalypse. Now that he could believe. 

“Do you see anything?” Andy asked, voice low and harsh. Patrick didn’t, but he also didn’t trust himself to see anything in the unfamiliar landscape. He stepped closer to Pete, nervous. Not that he thought Pete could do much to protect him, but it beat being an easy target.

Smith adjusted his gun, lifting it up and squinting into the distance. 

“Yo!” he shouted, and Patrick jumped and flinched at the resulting scurrying noise from behind the ruins Smith was threatening. “Step out of I’ll be forced to waste my bullets on you.”

“I don’t want trouble,” whoever it was called back fearfully. “Just...just let me go.”

“Go then,” Smith snapped. “I won’t ask again.”

The only response was silence, until--

Patrick yelped and clutched the side of his head, where a piece of rubble had smacked him, presumably thrown by the hiding stranger. Pete shouted, sound echoing weirdly in Patrick’s head, raising his gun. The hiding stranger shouted back, but it was muffled by a high pitched buzzing sound as the world kind of spun around Patrick. 

He was vaguely aware of more rubble being thrown--his sluggish mind informed him that there had to be more than one hiding out--and he caught up with himself in just enough time to tug Pete to the ground as a large chunk of rubble just missed smashing him in the face. 

“Thanks,” Pete said. “Stay there.”

Patrick didn’t really have a choice. His ears were still ringing and he was still dizzy, the shouts around him only serving to make him more confused. He heard a few gunshots, a scream, then Pete ducked down to his level again. 

“I’ve got you,” he said, or, at least, that’s what Patrick thought he said, but he didn’t get a chance to frown and/or question Pete on that before Pete shoved his gun back into his holster and scooped up Patrick bridal style, like he weighed nothing. 

Pete ran, Patrick bouncing in his arms. He shut his eyes, praying that the impending nausea this unwilling ride gave him would fade, praying the ache in his head would diminish sooner rather than later, but neither of those things seemed like they were going to happen. 

Patrick closed his eyes and passed out.

\-----

“I’m not equipped to handle a head injury.”

Patrick was pretty sure that voice was Travie. He kind of hoped that was actually the voice of a friendly doctor in the psych ward Patrick was pretty sure he belonged in, but, as he cracked his eyes open, he was disappointed to see the same ruins he’d been seeing for the past two days. 

“Nobody’s equipped to handle a head injury,” Andy said. “How’s yours, Pete?”

“Fine,” Pete said tersely. He didn’t sound fine. “We really need to move. Patrick’s really fucking with my vision. I should have seen that coming.”

Even with a head injury, Patrick could tell Pete was King Bullshit of Bullshit Mountain. He still really did not understand why the entirety of humanity that existed after what basically qualified as the apocalypse were so collectively stupid, but at the moment, he didn’t care enough to find out. 

He wondered if he could sneak away without them noticing, but his plan was derailed as Travie glanced down at him.

“Oh good, he’s awake,” Travie said, sounding genuinely relieved. “Hey, Patrick. How are you feeling?”

“Mmm,” Patrick groaned on his first attempt to speak out loud. “M’ head hurts.”

He was slurring his words like he was five shots and a few beers deep into bar night. He shifted, intending on sitting up, but Pete’s hand rested heavily on his shoulder, pinning him to the uncomfortably hard ground.

“No,” he said gently. “Your head is gashed wide open. Probably shouldn’t move.”

 _I’m fine,_ was what Patrick wanted to say in response to that, but Pete carefully dabbed at the most painful spot on Patrick’s head with what Patrick hoped was a clean piece of cloth and he groaned in pain instead. Okay. Maybe he wasn’t fine. 

“What do,” Patrick managed. Travie, Andy, and Joe all gave him confused looks, Smith was staring intently around them, clearly on guard, but Pete seemed to understand. Which was the worst. Patrick was struggling enough with how hot Pete was, it was infuriating that Pete seemed to get Patrick like no one else did.

“We’re resting,” Pete said firmly. “I got hit in the head, too. You need to get your bearings back, you’d do no good to our mission stumbling around with a concussion.”

Patrick wanted to deny having a concussion, but he was pretty sure he probably did, and English seemed to be outside the realm of his abilities at the moment, anyway. Pete gently dabbed at his head again. 

“My thoughts are that a few of us should go scout out the road ahead,” Smith said, turning back to the group. His lips were thin, stress evident across his face, the picture of a rugged, beaten down soldier. “To see if there are any obvious threats. Pete, you and Patrick should obviously stay here. The problem is that I need all the manpower I can get. If we hide you and Patrick, can you manage for a half hour?”

“We’ll be fine,” Pete said, with more confidence than Patrick thought the situation called for. “It’ll give us a chance to recover. And you know you can’t rely on me right now.”

“Your abilities will come back,” Smith said, also with more confidence than the situation warranted. “Andy?”

“I’m going to pick you up, Patrick,” Andy said, and, before Patrick could argue or agree, Andy stooped down and picked him up with ease. “Pete? How’s that ex-house? Safe enough?”

“It’s fine,” Pete said. Patrick tried not to wince as Andy began walking, every step jarring his head until the shade of the crumbling structure blocked out the brightly setting sun. Andy laid Patrick down on a lumpy, ancient sofa, Pete easing himself down to sit on the floor beside Patrick, pulling out his gun and resting it on his lap.

“Half an hour,” Smith reiterated. Pete nodded. “Let’s go.”

They didn’t linger, all four clearing out with minimal whining from Travie. Patrick strained to hear their footsteps fade away before fixing Pete with his best glare despite his current gaping head wound. Pete looked even less imposing now, a cut on his forehead, blood dried in streaks down across the bridge of his nose. Patrick couldn’t believe he ever found this asshole intimidating.

“Okay,” he said, still slurring a little but powering through. “I want….an explanation.”

“I guess you’re owed one,” Pete said, and Patrick blinked in surprise. “Well, I didn’t know how much longer I could keep lying to you. You’re a little quicker on the uptake than the rest. Not sure why.”

“Am I hallucinating?” Patrick asked, and Pete shook his head. 

“If I tell you,” Pete said, voice low despite the fact that they were alone. “If I tell you, you _have_ to believe me. I need your help.”

“If I can help you, I will,” Patrick allowed. “But I don’t promise blind trust.”

“Fair enough,” Pete said, then glanced around. “I’m not psychic.”

“No shit,” Patrick said, and Pete rolled his eyes. “So what is the truth?”

“I got here the same way you got here,” Pete said. “Time travel. Only on purpose, and backwards.”

“Okay,” Patrick said slowly. “Care to elaborate?”

“I was born shortly before the war,” Pete said. “I figured out how to time travel. It’s a very long story. But I wanted to travel to your year, to 2013, just to experience life when it was good. But I messed up. I ended up here.”

“So you’re from the future?” Patrick asked, hoping he didn’t sound as disbelieving as he felt. “Like, the _future_ future?”

Pete nodded, uncomfortably serious. 

“I landed here and remembered from the stories I’d been told and the only history that exists in my time what exactly happens when,” Pete said. 

“So when you’re right, they think you’re psychic,” Patrick realized slowly. “So you are a liar. And an idiot.”

“Probably,” Pete said, wincing. “I didn’t mean to become, like, the godlike symbol I am. I just thought I could save a few lives while I figured out how to try again. And then, a couple days ago, I tried again. I got nowhere.”

“But I came here,” Patrick breathed, then reached out to smack Pete as hard as he could, hissing in pain as it jarred his head. “You! You brought me here! I didn’t want to come here, but you’re such a shitty time traveler, you brought me here _anyway!”_

“Yeah,” Pete said, wincing again. “I am sorry about that. It wasn’t my intention.”

“So if you know that, what’s the point of this?” Patrick asked, gesturing around them. “This...this mission. To kill Urie.”

“Urie deserves to die,” Pete said. 

“Nobody deserves to die,” Patrick said. “I’m not stupid. I’m only getting your side of the story. What’s your real issue here?”

“I know what happens in the future,” Pete said seriously. “I know he wins this war. I know lots of _my side_ die. If I can stop it….”

“Why involve me?” Patrick asked. 

“Because after we kill Urie,” Pete said. “I’m trying again. And I’m taking you with me. It’s the least I can do.”

“You’re damn right,” Patrick muttered. “What else?”

“What?” Pete asked, obviously taken aback.

“What else?” Patrick repeated. “I know that look. You’re not subtle. What else are you hiding?”

Pete sighed. 

“In the future,” he said, voice low. “The reason Urie wins is that someone betrays us. I don’t know who it is. At first, before I realized what I’d done, I thought it was you. But then you started changing things and I knew you weren’t supposed to be here. So now I’m stuck. Because I have to stop them, too.”

“Who do you think it is?” Patrick asked. Pete shrugged one shoulder. 

“Hard to say,” Pete said. “I keep looking at everyone as carefully as I can, but they all seem as likely as the next. I can’t imagine any of them doing that.”

“They all seem loyal to a fault,” Patrick agreed, even though he didn’t want to. “So you have a secret mission within your suicide mission? What if it all goes wrong?”

“Well,” Pete said. “We have the power to leave.”

“And you’d sacrifice them for it?” Patrick demanded. Pete shook his head quickly. 

“No,” he said. “You and I are going in alone. If worse comes to worse, we make a scene and the rest can run for it.”

Patrick stared Pete down for a long moment before sighing. 

“I don’t like this,” he said. “But I don’t have much choice. Thanks for dropping the stupid psychic routine at least.”

“You’re too smart for it,” Pete said, grinning. Against his will and common sense, Patrick grinned back. 

“Five bucks it’s Smith,” Patrick offered. “The traitor, I mean.”

Pete barked a sudden laugh.

“If it’s Smith I’ll combust on the spot,” he said, then rested his fingertips lightly on the gash at Patrick’s temple. “That looks painful.”

Patrick shrugged, acutely aware of where Pete was touching him gently. His breath felt stuck in his chest. Patrick was the dumbest thing maybe ever, especially now that actual danger was definitely coming up the pike. It was clear Pete was shitty at time traveling, and now Patrick was forced to rely on him or die.

Belatedly, Patrick realized Pete had said something requiring a response.

“I’d tell you I’ve had worse, but I would be lying,” he said. Pete snorted. “It’s not so bad. Maybe going back in time will fix it.”

“Not sure it works like that,” Pete said, dropping his hand. Patrick tried to ignore how weird his skin felt after Pete’s touch. “But I’ll let you dream.”

“I appreciate it,” Patrick said. “I still think you’re full of crap.”

“I have some time to change your mind,” Pete said, and Patrick grinned. 

\-----

The road ahead turned out to be safe and they couldn’t really afford to rest any more than they already had, so Patrick was back on his feet probably before he technically should have been. He was still gunless, the others having evidently realized that Patrick was useless with a gun when he didn’t have a head wound, and giving him one now was a terrible, terrible idea. 

“How far?” Patrick asked. Smith’s lips thinned and he adjusted his grip on the gun he looked entirely too comfortable carrying. He didn’t grace Patrick with a look, still staring dead ahead with an increasingly unhappy expression. Patrick silently upped his bet with Pete to ten dollars. 

“Two days walk, assuming we hit no more barricades,” he said shortly. Patrick let it drop, choosing to change the subject instead. 

“You really know your way around,” he said, and Smith glared at him out of the corner of his eye. 

“I’ve fought here for two years,” he snapped. “I know it like the back of my hand.”

“Sorry,” Patrick said, not meaning it in the slightest. “So, like. What’s up with Urie? Why’s he so bad or whatever?”

“Urie is a tactical genius,” Smith said. “He’s cunning, creative, and clever. He’s an excellent marksman and completely fearless.”

Wow. That wasn’t even remotely what Patrick thought Smith would respond with. Smith’s response was less _hated enemy_ and more _amazing leader_. Patrick frowned.

“So, outside of your apparent hero worship, what’s up with him?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“It is not _hero worship,_ ” Smith said coldly. Well, that was the truth, at least. Patrick could appreciate how Smith’s expressions never left any room for doubt. “I can appreciate fellow military might. And all of that is what makes him so dangerous.”

And _that_ was a lie, at least partially. Interesting. Either Smith really was the traitor or he just had a massive hardon for Urie. Patrick wondered if Urie was hot. That would explain a lot. Pete proved that it was still possible to have crushes in the apocalypse. 

“Urie’s cruel,” Travie spoke up, evidently feeling sorry for Patrick being left high and dry in his knowledge quest. “He kills indiscriminately. If you’re in the way of what he wants, you’re dead. Doesn’t matter who you are. You’re dead.”

“And what does he want?” Patrick asked. 

“The entire Chicago area,” Pete said from right beside Patrick. “For his own. If he wins this war, he gets it. And the future after he gets it is bleak.”

Urie must have won in Pete’s future, Patrick realized. He should have known the mission was more personal than Pete let on. He shot Pete a look that he hoped conveyed his threat to _talk later_ before turning back to Travie. 

“So he’s an asshole,” Patrick said. “But there has to be more. Ideologically, what does he stand for?”

“Ideologically?” Andy asked, like he’d never heard the word before. 

“Yes,” Patrick said, as patiently as possible. “It means ‘what does he care about’?”

“Urie doesn’t care about a goddamn thing,” Joe said darkly. Patrick found that very hard to believe, but, before he could say so, Smith spoke up.

“Of course he cares about things,” he said. Patrick hoped his intrigue wasn’t obvious. Smith’s voice had the weirdest tone to it, a kind of annoyance and desperation mixed together, like he didn’t want to be talking but couldn’t help it. That just made Patrick want to make sure Smith continued to talk.

Patrick made meaningful eye contact with Pete, who avoided his gaze. Whatever. Every word out of Smith’s mouth made Patrick more sure of where Smith’s loyalties laid. The only question was _why_ a seemingly important and impressive military man would throw all that away. There had to be something. 

“Like what?” Joe demanded, evidently not reading into Smith’s tone and words as much as Patrick was. 

Smith shrugged uncomfortably. 

“Everyone cares about things,” he said. “Even evil people.”

“So what does Urie care about?” Andy asked. “You’d know, you’ve spent the last two years spying on him.”

 _Interesting._ Spying on Urie. Well that would explain why Smith may have turned traitor. And how Smith may have acquired an alleged crush. Patrick was intrigued. Despite the whole apocalypse thing, this was better than cable. 

“He cares about his mission,” Smith said shortly. “He cares about Chicago.”

“How vague and unhelpful,” Andy said dryly. “Figures that he conveniently forgot that his mission involves killing anyone that doesn’t agree to his ultimate rule.”

“He doesn’t see it that way,” Smith said. He looked like he wished he’d never said a word. “He thinks it’s safer and more sustainable for everyone to live under the same rules. Less fighting, less death.”

“Don’t sound like you’re too much on his side, now,” Travie cracked, and Patrick fixed Pete with another meaningful stare, hoping his gaze communicated his internal monologue of _holy shit I fucking TOLD you_ perfectly. Pete still avoided looking back at Patrick, but his expression had changed from curiosity to contemplation. 

Patrick fucking loved being right. 

“I’m not on his side,” Smith said shortly. Liar. Liar liar pants on fire. Patrick put a mental sticky note on Smith’s face that just read _TRAITOR._ “Like I said, I can just appreciate military strength.”

“To be honest, I can also appreciate Urie’s face,” Andy snorted. “He’s chiseled from the Gods.”

So Urie _was_ hot. 

“Gross,” Travie said, wrinkling his nose. “Don’t fuck the enemy.”

“My face is cute, too,” Joe muttered, sounding wounded. Andy rubbed Joe’s arm soothingly. 

“I still think you’re the hottest,” he reassured him. Pete rolled his eyes but surprisingly said nothing. 

“How cute,” someone said from directly to Patrick’s right. “I’ll be sure to let Urie know all about how hot you find him.”

“Look out!” Travie shouted, lifting his gun. Pete grabbed Patrick’s arm hard, bodily dragging him behind himself, facing the woman who’d spoken. 

Women, actually. There were five and all of them looked like incredibly deadly snakes, poised to strike and kill every one of Pete’s group. They wore similar clothes, all in black, with rifles held casually in their arms. Their hair was back in identical buns, just like the woman from back at Pete’s house, and they looked like assassins. 

Patrick felt _very_ afraid.

The leader--or, at least, who Patrick assumed was the leader, based on her posture and attitude-- smirked at Patrick, and Patrick gaped in reply. 

“My name’s Sarah, actually,” the one Patrick had named the leader said. “Stop looking so scared. We’re not here to hurt you. We’re here to extend a warm welcome to your time traveling guest.”

“How do you know about him?” Travie demanded, but, before any of the women could reply, Smith stepped forward. 

“It’s a trap!” he shouted. “Run!”

Pete didn’t wait for any further instructions, just grabbed Patrick’s wrist and made a break for it.

\----

Patrick was pretty sure they’d run for hours. He was currently gasping for breath and internally panicking about the logistics of having an asthma attack in the apocalypse where he was fairly certain he wouldn’t be able to find an inhaler. 

Granted, Patrick would be battling his asthma even if he ran for just five minutes, but that was beside the point. Pete hadn’t let go of Patrick’s wrist, either, like he was afraid Patrick would completely vanish. Which was a weird fear--it wasn’t like anything major would happen to Pete if Patrick were to vanish. Pete could time travel with or without Patrick. To be completely honest, Patrick was more of a liability than an asset, but still, Pete didn’t let go.

Eventually, they found themselves in a different empty husk of a building. It was full of broken furniture: overturned tables, chairs lying in pieces, a couch stripped of cushions. But it had all the walls intact, and the roof was only missing part of itself, so it was safe. For the time being.

“A trap?” Patrick asked, the first thing he’d said since they’d run for it. “How did Urie trap us?”

“The traitor,” Pete said. “And before you say anything--”

“I wasn’t _going_ to say anything--”

“--it’s not Smith.”

“In what world,” Patrick began. “No, in what _actual universe_ could you listen to what Smith was saying and _not_ think he’s the traitor?”

“You don’t know him like I do,” Pete said firmly. “That’s not like him.”

“Yeah, it’s never ‘like’ traitors to be a traitor,” Patrick said. “That’s kind of the point. If it was easy to figure out traitors, there would be a lot less of them.”

“You think Smith’s obviously the traitor because of his actions,” Pete pointed out. “Which means he’s _not_ the traitor, based on your own logic just now.”

Patrick glared at him.

“You are the most infuriating man I have ever met,” he seethed, poking him in the shoulder for emphasis. “For real. How you got an entire group of people to treat you like a God when you’re so irritating is the real miracle.”

“Shut up and sit down,” Pete said, grabbing Patrick’s hand and dragging him to the floor to sit beside Pete. “We have to rest here. Head injuries, remember?”

Oh, Patrick remembered. And even if he didn’t, the ache in his head was loud enough to remind him. He could not _wait_ to get out of this hellhole. Speaking of.

“I’m still not entirely convinced you’re going to be able to get me home,” he said, narrowing his eyes. Pete rolled his, but Patrick pressed on. “Name one time you’ve been successful with time travel.”

“Would you rather I don’t try at all?” Pete asked. “Because if I don’t, you are guaran-fucking-teed to live here forever. And you are so not cut out for this life.”

“I just got here like three days ago!” Patrick said, outraged despite the fact that Pete was one hundred percent right. Patrick was not about to tell him that, though. 

“Oh, so given time you’ll be a regular Smith, is that what you’re saying?” Pete asked, tilting his head to the side and smirking. Patrick gritted his teeth. 

“No,” he said. “Because I won’t be a traitor.”

“Spencer isn’t a traitor,” Pete said. 

“Spencer?” Patrick said. “Does he have a real name now?”

“Spencer’s name is Spencer Smith,” Pete said. “And before you ask, I don’t know Urie’s first name. And it doesn’t matter. We’ll be killing him before the traitor manages to ruin everything.”

“How on Earth are we going to manage that?” Patrick asked. “If he really is some super important leader, how will we get to him? How do you kill someone that important?”

“He’s a dictator,” Pete said. “A regular old bullet should take care of him.”

“If you think I’m gonna fire a gun, you have another think coming,” Patrick said. 

“Not sure that’s the actual phrase, but I’ll allow it,” Pete replied. “And I’ll fire, if you insist. As long as he’s dead.”

“This sounds personal,” Patrick said. “You want to go back in time, what do you care if Urie is dead now? He’ll still be alive in 2013.”

“His death won’t matter in the grand scheme of things,” Pete said, voice harsh. “But at least putting a bullet in his head will help me feel better when I think about how his little army killed my entire family.”

“Holy shit,” Patrick breathed. “ _Pete._ ”

Pete shut his eyes tight like he was fighting against tears, clenching his teeth. His hands were curled into tight fists at his sides and Patrick reached out to lay a gentle, hesitant hand on Pete’s arm. 

“Pete,” Patrick said helplessly, and Pete’s breathing hitched. “Pete, I’m so _sorry.”_

He didn’t know why it didn’t occur to him that this might have been more personal than Pete let on, that Pete might have had an actual reason to send Patrick to kill Urie, not to mention why he agreed to come. Patrick couldn’t imagine what that felt like, to have a reason to send someone on the mission they were on, to have hope it would be completed. 

Patrick always thought he was against revenge plots, but he hadn’t lost his family. Maybe if he had, he’d think differently. 

Suddenly, Pete seemed a hell of a lot less like an asshole. He sort of seemed….lost, like he was making things up as he went along. Patrick could relate. That was how he’d felt at home, too. At least here he had a purpose, as dark as the purpose was. At least here no one was jumping down his throat about his plans for the future.

Maybe Pete wasn’t an asshole, or an idiot. Maybe he was just a lonely person trying to make sense of the world around him. 

Pete cleared his throat and swallowed, looking up at Patrick. The house was growing darker as the sun set and Pete took a shuddering breath, glancing up at the ceiling for a moment. 

“Sun’s gone down,” he said, somewhat gruffly. “We should head to the roof.”

Patrick looked up, too, and frowned. The roof didn’t seem like a particularly safe place to be, what with the large, gaping hole through which Patrick could see the emerging stars in the all-consuming darkness. He looked back down at Pete, raising an eyebrow. 

“I don’t really want to fall and break my legs,” he pointed out. “What with the lack of medical care here.”

“It is possible to stay away from the hole,” Pete sighed. “We have to check for signals.”

“Signals,” Patrick repeated. “I’d ask but I don’t think I’d like the answer.”

“Your words, not mine,” Pete said. “There has to be a way to the roof around here somewhere.”

Pete moved like he knew his way around with ease. Two closets, illuminated by Pete’s lighter, proved fruitless, until they made their way tentatively up the stairs to the second story, Patrick hating every step they took. 

“Fire escape,” Pete said, pausing outside what appeared to be a bedroom, narrowing his eyes. “That should work.”

“This is a terrible idea,” Patrick said, but he knew he had zero say in anything they did, so he reluctantly followed Pete to the bedroom window, wincing as Pete forced the window up despite the loud groaning, scraping noises that indicated it had been quite a long time since this window was used. 

Patrick followed Pete out the window--struggling to get over the ledge while Pete executed that movement perfectly, of fucking course--and carefully climbed up the stairs, the hot, arid wind blowing by, whipping Pete’s hood off, tangling Patrick’s hair. 

The roof offered no protection from the wind, but they could see quite a bit despite this only being a two story house. Being in the suburbs helped. He rubbed his arms against the chill of the desolate environment and looked around. 

Chicago after the end of the world was dark at night. No streetlights. No lights from the eerily quiet, dark skyscrapers that Patrick could just see the outlines of in the distance. Nothing but the moon, the stars, and the glow of what appeared to be fires on the tops of houses, one every so often, as far as Patrick could see. 

“Signals,” Pete said, following Patrick’s gaze. “All for different groups. All meaning different things. But I only care about one.”

“Which one?” Patrick asked. Pete narrowed his eyes, seemingly counting in his head, mouthing the numbers as he went. One, two, three--

“That one,” Pete said, pointing. Patrick tried to follow his directions but it was a lost cause. It could be any one of three fires burning in that general vicinity. He let it go, turning back to Pete instead. 

“What does it mean?” he asked, and then, after his stomach dropped considering it: “Won’t Urie be able to figure it out?”

“Not with this many going,” Pete said. “Some are his own people, I’m sure. It’s better than I expected, to have this many in one night. But that one is ours. I know because that is where the safehouse should be.”

“I’m sorry,” Patrick said, feeling distinctly left out. “Safehouse?”

Pete winced. 

“So, about that,” he said, and Patrick scowled. 

“I don’t like any explanation that starts with _so, about that,_ ” he warned, and Pete sighed. 

“In my defense--”

“Not better.”

“--I didn’t know who the traitor was. So I made a deal with Andy and Smith for a location in case we had to get separated. I didn’t tell you because, well.”

“I see,” Patrick said, then stuck an accusing finger in Pete’s face. “No more secrets.”

“None,” Pete said, relieved. 

“How do we time travel?” Patrick asked. 

“With this,” Pete said, like he expected the test. He reached into his jacket and pulled out what looked like a narrow silver tube with a button on it. Pete pointed to it. “I press that and it reads my thoughts and takes me where I want to go.”

“Allegedly,” Patrick said. 

“Allegedly,” Pete agreed. “But it’s all I’ve got.”

“Fine,” Patrick sighed, then glanced towards the fires again. “So we go there?”

Pete nodded.

“We go there,” he said. Patrick tried hard not to mentally batten down the hatches. 

\-----

“Shh,” Pete said, entirely unnecessarily. Patrick wasn’t making a sound. Patrick was barely breathing to avoid making any noise whatsoever. He prodded Pete in the ribs anyway. 

The house Pete said was the safehouse still had smoke drifting from the roof. The night was pitch black around them, and Patrick shivered, wishing for a streetlight or lights from living rooms or any other indication that maybe his time here so far had been a massive hallucination. Patrick gripped the back of Pete’s jacket, and, after a cursory glance back in confusion, Pete let it go, drawing his gun. 

“Behind me,” he said, also unnecessarily. There was no way Patrick was going in first. Pete carefully pushed the front door open, taking one hesitant step in and then another, glancing around. 

The house seemed abandoned, but Smith was a military genius so Patrick doubted it was actually empty. Pete hoisted his gun higher, eyes focused, and Patrick tried to pay attention, too, for all the good he could do. He was essentially useless if he was being entirely honest, but trying was better than doing nothing. 

Pete whistled, a low, two-tone note that kind of made the hair on the back of Patrick’s neck stick up. He cleared his throat quietly before speaking up. 

“It’s me,” he hissed into the dark silence. “Password is Decaydance.”

Patrick flinched as he heard footsteps, ducking behind Pete before he could help himself. Pete raised his gun higher before sighing in relief and lowering it again. Patrick worked up the nerve to glance around Pete and echoed Pete’s relieved sigh.

“Roll call?” Pete asked, and Andy sighed. 

“Me, Joe, Travie,” he said. “Smith is missing.”

“Shit,” Pete said. “Shit, shit, shit.”

If Pete were looking at him, Patrick would give him a meaningful look, or maybe mouth _traitor_ , but Pete was focused on Andy. Unfortunately. Pete shouldered his gun, Patrick quickly stepping out of range of an accidental trigger pull, finally making eye contact with Joe. 

Joe looked apprehensive, looking Patrick up and down like he wasn’t sure if he should be surprised to see him. Patrick would think _likewise_ except he knew that Joe was the least likely of the entire group to be a traitor, and Patrick very much included himself. 

Joe shoved his gun in his holster and cracked his knuckles, then his neck, glancing at Andy once he was done. 

“What’s the plan?” he asked, and Andy sighed, holstering his own gun as well. Travie very obviously kept his out and ready, continually glancing around like he didn’t really believe they were alone. 

“We gotta get Smith back,” Andy said. “I don’t think he’d break and spill the mission, even under torture, but he might. And he’s our best, so either we go get him or we resign ourselves to the fact that Urie will beat us in the war. Once he breaks Smith, there goes all our intel, every advantage we have.”

“We’re going there anyway,” Joe said. “Might as well make it a rescue mission and an assassination all in one.”

“So it’s not a suicide mission anymore?” Patrick asked, before he could help himself. Joe narrowed his eyes. 

“No,” he said shortly. “Still a dumb idea. No offense, Pete.”

“We have to move fast,” Pete said, evidently deciding to ignore Joe’s dig. “Let’s split up. Andy, you, Joe, and Travie go west. Meet us at the backup house. Patrick and I will head straight in. The fewer people we have trying to sneak behind enemy fire the better.”

“I don’t think sending you in is the best option,” Andy said, voice careful. “You’re our greatest asset.”

“And without me, this mission goes nowhere,” Pete said shortly. “It’s me and Patrick, in and out. If something goes south--”

Pete stuck his gun under his head and mimed pulling the trigger. Travie and Patrick winced and looked away, but Andy’s gaze was hard, not looking anywhere but right at Pete.

“The second things look like they’ll fail,” he said. “You shoot Smith, Patrick, and yourself. It’s too dangerous to allow Urie even a chance to get you. If losing Smith would be bad--”

Losing Pete would be worse. Pete, who came from the future, who knew what would happen. 

“And if they don’t fail?” Joe asked, eyes flicking from Pete to Patrick. Patrick hoped his face didn’t advertise the sheer, abject terror he felt at the entire prospect of what they were about to do.

“Point B,” Pete said. The others seemed to understand, even though Patrick was confused as hell, because they all nodded. “This will work. It has to.”

He stuck his hand out, looking at everyone in turn. Joe sighed, but placed his hand on top of Pete’s, Andy following suit.

“If it doesn’t, we’re screwed,” Travie said, worried, but placed his hand on top. 

Pete glanced at Patrick, who took a shaky breath. This could be bad. The time travel bullshit could fail. Patrick could be stuck here forever. Patrick could wind up with a _bullet_ in his head, all for something he never asked for. It was Pete’s fault he was here, Patrick never wanted to time travel, none of this was fair.

Patrick exhaled slowly, nodding, and placing his hand on top of them all. 

“You leave first,” Pete said to Andy. “We’ll follow in a couple hours, to give you time to get away. Clear?”

“Clear,” Andy said, nodding, and Pete nodded back, before dropping his hand. The rest followed, Patrick feeling kind of empty, and Andy adjusted his hat. “Alright, you heard Pete. Let’s go.”

“Stay safe,” Pete said, and Andy nodded. 

“And you,” he replied, glancing at Patrick. “You--don’t let us down.”

Patrick had no idea how to reply to that, didn’t even have a clue of how to defend himself, but Andy didn’t give him a moment to do so, readying his gun and walking purposefully out of the house. Joe and Travie exchanged a long, unreadable look before following. 

Patrick felt a little bereft. 

“So what’s the real plan?” he hissed as soon as they were out of earshot. “We walk in there, kill Urie, rescue the traitor, and then what? Because you just said you’d meet them at ‘point B’, whatever the fuck _that_ means, but _I_ thought we were getting the fuck out of here.”

“We are,” Pete whispered, gesturing uselessly for Patrick to keep the volume down. “We are getting the fuck out of here, I promise, but we gotta get Smith back first. I can’t leave him to Urie’s lack of mercy, I can’t.” 

“So we get Smith back, then what?” Patrick asked. “How do we disappear?” 

“We sneak back out,” Pete said. “It’s all we can do. Smith’s done so much for us. I can’t leave him behind. I don’t care that you think he’s the traitor, I know what Urie is capable of. I can’t leave him behind.”

“And if we get caught?” Patrick asked. “You really gonna blow my brains out?”

Pete nodded seriously.

“I would rather die than let you be tortured by that monster,” he said lowly. “I could never, ever live with myself knowing I brought that on you. So this has to work. It’s my fault you’re here--it will not be my fault you stay stuck here.”

“You don’t even know me,” Patrick said, and Pete laughed humorlessly. 

“Time works differently after the end of the world,” he said. “Three days may as well have been three years. I know you pretty well by now.”

“Oh yeah?” Patrick asked. “Prove it.”

“You want Smith to be the traitor because you know him the least,” Pete said, and Patrick blinked in surprise, somehow managing to not take several steps back. “Am I right? I know I’m right. You want to get home mostly because home is less confusing than here, even though you have no direction at home. Part of you kind of wants to stay here because there are no expectations on your future, but you know you can’t.”

Patrick gaped at Pete, struggling to collect his thoughts. Finally, he swallowed past a desert dry mouth and spoke.

“Are you sure you’re not really psychic?”

His voice was tentative and a little hoarse, but Pete cracked a grin anyway, running a hand through his hair. 

“Pretty sure,” Pete said wryly. “Oh, one more thing. You think I’m hot.”

“You’re delusional,” Patrick lied. “And besides, there’s no time for a love story in the apocalypse.”

“On the contrary,” Pete said. “I think the apocalypse is the perfect time for a love story.”

“Is it really appropriate to say that right before we head into what might possibly be our deaths?” Patrick asked skeptically. Pete shrugged. 

“What better time than now?” he asked. There was a hopeful tone in his voice, a glint in his eye, and Patrick searched for a joke in there, searched for some hint that Pete wasn’t actually serious right now.

“How about when we go back?” he asked. “I gotta have some insurance you’ll get me there.”

“Then I gotta have some insurance you’ll hold your end of the bargain up,” Pete said, smirking, and Patrick gave up.

“How’s this for insurance?” he asked, and kissed Pete. 

It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t fireworks or shivers down his spine or anything described in any romance novel. It was Pete’s mouth on his mouth, Pete’s sigh as his hands tangled in Patrick’s hair, Pete’s stubble underneath Patrick’s fingers as he desperately clutched at the curve of Pete’s jaw. It tasted nothing like sweetness, smelled nothing like cologne--it tasted real, smelled real. 

They broke apart, gasping a little. Pete’s hands were still in Patrick’s hair, Patrick still cradling Pete’s face, and the only sound in the room was them breathing hard. 

Pete swallowed, pressing a soft, far more chaste kiss to Patrick’s lips. 

“Okay,” he said, cracking a tired looking grin. “Good insurance.”

Patrick grinned back. 

“More where that came from,” he said. “Just don’t get me killed.”

Pete’s expression twisted into something far more serious and he ducked, pressing his forehead to Patrick’s. 

“I’d protect you with my life.”

Patrick stood on his tiptoes to kiss Pete again, just as soft, just as chaste. 

“Likewise,” he said, then reached down to grab Pete’s hand. “Let’s go kill someone.”

“You say the most romantic things,” Pete replied, grinning. “Onwards.”

\-----

Urie’s camp was just in sight when Pete stopped them, pulling Patrick behind a long-abandoned car, ducking down so they could face each other. Patrick’s hand was still in Pete’s, had been since they left the safehouse. It made Patrick feel better--Pete was right there, after all. They’d face this together. 

“Thank you,” Pete said quietly. “For continuing with this plan even after you figured out I was a fraud.”

“I knew you were a fraud before the plan even started,” Patrick said firmly. “And I’m continuing with it for you. Not because I want to kill someone and not just because I want to go home. But because it would help you.”

“Only emotionally,” Pete said.

“Still counts,” Patrick argued. “Especially now. I told you I had no idea what watching my family die would feel like. You know what it feels like. You lived it. Anything I can do to help, I will.”

“Even kill someone?” Pete asked, quirking an eyebrow. 

“Don’t test me,” Patrick said, fighting a grin. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You’re the bravest time transplant I know,” Pete said. 

“Says you,” Patrick argued. Pete shook his head.

“I’m not brave,” he said. “Stupid maybe, but not brave.”

“You’re incredibly brave,” Patrick whispered. “I’ve thought that for a while.”

Pete grinned. 

“I know,” he said cheekily, winking. “I’m psychic.”

“You are not,” Patrick said, struggling not to laugh and encourage Pete. It was probably not the time, not that they were feet from Urie’s camp, minutes from sneaking in. “But you are brave. I’m not sure I’d be able to face Urie, not after what you went through.”

Pete shrugged. 

“Probably wouldn’t have been able to do it without you,” he said quietly. “You’re brave, too. More so than anyone gives you credit for. In the past three days, you’ve cleared so many hurdles I’ve lost count, and you’re still going.”

“Because you’re taking me home,” Patrick said, sudden tears making a painful lump in his throat. He reached out and carefully cupped Pete’s cheek. “Because you and I are going home.”

Pete nodded, turning his head into Patrick’s hand for a moment before taking it in his own, lowering it and pressing a kiss to Patrick’s lips. 

“Right,” he said. “We’re going home.”

“So let’s get this done,” Patrick said, with more bravery than he really had, no matter what Pete thought. “Let’s get this done and let’s go home. If Smith is the traitor, you owe me a blowjob.”

“Fine,” Pete said, rolling his eyes. “And if he’s not, you owe me one.”

“Can’t wait for you to suck my dick,” Patrick said, before taking Pete’s hand again. “Let’s get this done.”

The walk up to the edge of Urie’s camp was heart pounding and terrifying. Patrick’s hand was sweaty in Pete’s and Pete was dead silent, eyes wide, looking around everywhere at once. Patrick didn’t need Pete to confirm that nothing like this had ever happened for him to draw “psychic knowledge” from, that they truly were going in blind. 

Pete was _afraid._ Well, Patrick was, too, but Patrick had never seen Pete this nervous. He was shaking a little, on tiptoe, and Patrick could practically see Pete’s pulse jumping in his neck. Patrick didn’t see anyone around them at all, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. 

What he did see were an array of tents in between crumbling used-to-be houses. It seemed like a large camp, like truly home base, and it was dead quiet. 

Where was everyone? Patrick had a sinking feeling that they really were walking into a trap. 

Pete nudged him and Patrick glanced over. He shook his hand free of Patrick’s for a moment, reaching into his holster and pulling out his second gun, a pistol, smaller than what Patrick expected, and held it out. 

Patrick stared at it for a long moment, then tore his gaze away to narrow his eyes at Pete. 

“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” he demanded. “I thought we’d established that I definitely do not use guns. Why hand me one?”

“I don’t know,” Pete hissed back. “Maybe because we’re walking behind enemy lines right now? And you point and shoot, it’s not that hard.”

“You’ll change your mind when I accidentally shoot you,” Patrick said. 

“Don’t you _dare,”_ Pete replied, grabbing his arm and steering him behind a line of tents. “High alert.”

“Got it,” Patrick muttered, but didn’t shake Pete off. The contact was nice, kind of reassuring. Especially because, when Patrick tore his gaze away from Pete, terror sank in. 

To his left were rows of tents, the military kind, uniform and identical except for the obvious wear and tear of constant use. To his right were crumbling ruins--Patrick couldn’t tell what the buildings used to be at all, if they were houses or business or neither. They were just piles of broken concrete rubble, like after a massive earthquake struck. Trash littered what used to be a street in front of the rubble, making it clear that this was where Urie’s people dumped their waste. 

Patrick saw cans of soda, crushed and empty, and aging, yellow newspapers, along with rags that must have been clothes at one point and more leaves than Patrick could believe. It was like nobody had picked up the street in years and years, which, based on the destruction, was probably what had happened. It was probably ridiculous to care about the environment when everyday life was hell, which Patrick could kind of understand.

Their footsteps sounded impossibly loud in the silence and Patrick tried to compensate by making his steps as light as possible, but it didn’t do shit. He counted tents instead--one, two, three.

By the time he’d gotten to fifteen, he heard his first voice since sneaking in. He reflexively grabbed Pete’s arm, raising his gun with one shaking hand, and Pete stepped closer, almost defensive. 

“Any moment.”

Pete and Patrick froze in their steps, exchanging an uncertain glance with each other, wide-eyed. Pete craned his neck uselessly, trying to see over the tent they were behind, but it was in vain. 

_Smith,_ Patrick mouthed, and Pete nodded jerkily. The tent flaps snapped in the breeze that picked up, scattering the trash and leaves, sending them skittering down the street. The noise briefly obscured Smith’s voice, but, when it died down, Smith was still talking. 

“--no idea if they know where I am. Pete probably does, you know he can see everything.”

“So we’ll just have to beat them before they can begin,” another voice replied. Pete went tense next to Patrick, grip tightening on his gun. “What about this...time traveler?”

Pete’s grip on Patrick got tighter, too, and Patrick let Pete pull him as close as their position and weapons allowed. Patrick was listening intently--he was fairly sure the second voice was Urie, based on Pete’s expression of fear, panic, and hatred all at once, and Smith’s relaxed tone did not suggest hostage.

“As far as I know, he just showed up,” Smith replied, and Patrick could practically hear the shrug. “No clue if he has the same abilities, but he did seem distrustful of me. Even though everyone else bought my act completely.”

“He won’t be a problem anymore,” probably-Urie said. “Do you think they’re still at the safehouse?”

“It’s worth checking,” Smith said. 

‘Will you be sad if I get rid of them all?” probably-Urie asked, a sort of _teasing_ tone to his voice, shockingly out of place with the content of their discussion. Smith snorted. 

“They mean nothing to me,” he said dismissively. “Getting rid of them will make sure we win. That’s all I care about. As long as you don’t go personally.”

“If I don’t go, you don’t go,” probably-Urie said firmly. “I can be overprotective, too.”

“When do we start?” a woman asked. Patrick was pretty sure this was Sarah, the woman who’d ambushed them, but his train of thought was derailed immediately as Pete took a step forward. 

Patrick grabbed onto Pete’s arm hard, planting his feet and managing to force him to stand still. 

Pete looked at him, eyes wild and dark and wet. 

“Smith is the traitor,” he hissed, barely audible. 

“I know,” Patrick replied, tightening his grip. “You owe me a blowjob. But you can’t just rush out there, you have _no idea--”_

“Smith is the traitor,” Pete repeated, like that was all that mattered. “He betrayed us, he’s the reason Urie wins, he’s the reason my family _dies_ and my parents are _gone_ and I grow up _alone._ It’s his fault, and I’m ending it now.”

“Pete ,em>no!” Patrick begged, but Pete yanked his arm out of Patrick’s grip, raised his gun, and stalked around the tent towards the voices. 

“No, no, _no,”_ Patrick muttered desperately, crouching down to follow him, creeping around the tent until he could see Pete’s back, rigid, and Smith, wide-eyed.

“So,” Pete said coldly. “After all the trust I put in you, you stab me in the back? Stab us in the back? All for what, _him?”_

Patrick crept forward a little more. His palms were damp with sweat, grip sliding on the gun, but he halted in place once he could see everyone. 

Urie--it had to be Urie, based on how Pete was reacting--looked unamused, cold. He was hot, Andy was right-- not that Patrick needed to be thinking of that right now-- with dark, dark hair swept back almost artfully, confidence emanating from every pore in his body. 

He looked both exactly and not at all what Patrick had pictured. Patrick looked down at the gun uncertainly. Okay. That was probably the...hammer? Right? So Patrick should pull it back to cock it, make it ready to _fire,_ holy _shit._

He swallowed past a dry throat and looked up again. Behind Urie was Sarah, Patrick was right, surrounded by a group of other women, all looking like equally deadly assassins. Pete seemed unafraid, but that was probably due to the sheer amount of rage Patrick could feel coming off him. 

“Pete--”

“Are you going to offer me an explanation, Smith?” Pete asked, voice harsh. “Because save it. You’re a traitor. That’s all I need to know.”

“You shouldn’t have come here,” Urie said darkly. 

“Why?” Pete asked sarcastically. “You’re going to “get rid” of me anyway. At least this way I have a shot at killing you first.”

Everything after that happened almost too quickly to process. Urie pulled out a gun, aiming at Pete before Pete even looked his way. Urie’s finger pressed to the trigger and Patrick moved before he could even think about it. 

“No!” he heard himself shout, and his gun fired. Patrick wasn’t even sure if _he_ fired the gun, or if guns in the future just reacted for people, because that was too easy, too smooth for Patrick to have done it on purpose. 

Urie barely had time to look up and over at Patrick, surprise crossing his face, before he gasped, all the air in him leaving at once, hands going up to clutch at his stomach where the bullet Patrick had fired hit him. 

“No!” Smith echoed, as desperate and terrified as Patrick’s own scream of denial had been. Urie stumbled, falling to his knees, and Smith fell with him, pulling him to the side and into his arms. “No, Bren, no, come on--”

Urie gasped for breath, eyes unfocused, reaching up with the hand not clutching his side to press shaky fingers to Smith’s cheek. Smith was choking on sobs, clutching Urie close, pressing his own hand on top of Urie’s in a useless attempt to stop the bleeding, to save Urie’s life. 

“Spencer,” Urie whispered. “Spencer, I love you.”

Urie slumped over as soon as the words had left his mouth, mouth falling open, eyes glassy, and Smith screamed in what sounded like agony, choking on Urie’s name.

Sarah shouted, something wordless and unintelligible over the roaring in Patrick’s ears as he scrambled to his feet, racing to Pete as Sarah pulled out her own gun, eyes fixed on Patrick. 

Patrick felt like he was running in slow motion, through quicksand, like running in a dream. He gasped for breath, two feet from Pete’s side when Smith looked up, eyes full of fury, tears streaking down his cheeks. His eyes locked on Patrick, who grabbed Pete’s arm, and he lunged for his gun, abandoned several feet from Urie’s body. 

“You’re dead, time traveler!” Smith spat, and, before Patrick could defend himself, Pete pointed his gun at Smith and pulled the trigger. 

Sarah screamed as Pete’s shot hit Smith in the head, splattering blood across the concrete ground, and, as the women stumbled back to avoid Smith’s body as it collapsed across Urie’s, Patrick grabbed Pete’s hand and yanked him into a run. 

\-----

Patrick didn’t have energy left to worry about an asthma attack, just ran as fast as he could, clutching Pete’s hand like a lifeline, until Pete yanked him to a stop.

“We can’t meet up with the others,” he panted. “We’ll lead Urie’s people right to them. They’re safe, they know to bail when we’re not back in two hours. We have to go, they won’t stop until they find us.”

“Holy shit,” Patrick managed through heaving breaths. “Pete, holy shit. Just holy shit.”

Pete let go of Patrick’s sweaty hand to cup his face and kiss him firmly. Patrick tried to kiss back but the adrenaline crash after getting away made him kind of shaky and weak. 

“You did it,” Pete said quietly. “You killed him.”

“I--” Patrick said. He felt lost. There were a number of things he _wantedthat won’t bring your family back_ , which Pete knew, and _I told you so,_ which Patrick would have time to gloat on later. He finally settled on: “He was going to kill you.”

“You saved my life,” Pete whispered, kissing him again. Patrick swallowed past a dry throat. 

“You saved mine,” he replied, then wrapped his arms around Pete, burying his face in Pete’s shoulder. He smelled awful, but Patrick probably didn’t smell much better, but Pete gave him a soft squeeze. “Let’s--let’s go home. Please.”

“Yeah,” Pete said, pulling away to reach into his pocket. He pulled out the familiar cylinder, holding it in front of Patrick. “Wrap your hand around it, like this. Yeah, exactly.”

“What do we do?” Patrick asked hesitantly, ripping his gaze away from the cold, metal tube in his hand and up to Pete. 

“You tell me about home,” Pete said. “As much detail as you can think of. And we get there. Hopefully.”

“Hopefully,” Patrick echoed. 

“I don’t have the best track record,” Pete reminded him. 

“Don’t remind me,” Patrick protested. “Just--okay. Tell you about home.”

Pete nodded and Patrick took a deep breath, closing his eyes. 

“Home,” he said. “Home is Chicago, in 2013. It’s not in ruins. The buildings are tall and proud and they kind of glitter in the sky. There are so many people, people everywhere, and nobody is running around with fucking guns, and there isn’t a war. I live in a studio off the Loop.”

As Patrick spoke, he could practically see his Chicago unfurl in his mind like a film as the projector flickers on. The image was choppy at first, before it smoothed out and color began to flood the picture. 

“I have five guitars, two bass guitars, a set of drums, and a keyboard,” Patrick said. “My studio is on the twentieth floor of the building, but thank God there are elevators. From my place I can see the whole city, just about. I have a tiny balcony that I never go on because the wind is too brutal. I give lessons from the studio, it’s the best job in the world, and I want to go home.”

“Me, too,” Pete whispered, pressing his forehead to Patrick’s. “Me too. I want to go home, I want to go home with you.”

Patrick opened his eyes and kissed him, grip tightening on the tube. 

“Okay,” he said. “That’s home. Take us home.”

Pete nodded, though he glanced down at the tube with nervousness. 

“Don’t think,” Patrick urged. “Just do.”

Pete nodded again. 

“Okay,” he said. “Deep breath. Close your eyes.”

Patrick did, heart pounding in his chest. Pete pressed his forehead to Patrick’s again and took his own deep breath. 

“There’s no place like home,” Patrick whispered, grinning despite it all, and he heard the button click. 

Instantly, a bright white light, bright even through Patrick’s closed eyes, surrounded them. A high pitched buzzing followed, growing louder with each second, and the ground underneath Patrick began to shake. Patrick could hardly keep his balance, just kept clutching the tube, hands pressed to Pete’s, until he felt his feet lift off the floor. 

They were floating, Patrick could tell, but the light was so bright Patrick refused to open his eyes. Suddenly, rapidly, they began spinning, brutally fast, churning Patrick’s stomach with the force and velocity. Dizziness set in as they slammed to a stop and dropped down hard, into what felt like a couple feet of water. 

The light began dissipating, the buzzing fading away, as the cold, cold water soaked into Patrick’s shoes and pants, making goosebumps spring up along his arms. 

He had no idea where they’d landed, but possibly in a pond or a pool of some sort, which would be hilarious as long as they were home. It felt right, though, if Patrick could put words to it. It felt like home. 

The light vanished and Patrick hesitantly blinked his eyes open, meeting Pete’s as he did the same thing. They pulled away, glancing around, blinking the bright spots from their vision. 

They were--in Patrick’s apartment, that much was clear, but his apartment was flooded. It was dim but not pitch dark, like the sun was slowly rising and would soon shine through Patrick’s tiny window. 

“Oh no,” Patrick said, eyes landing on his guitars. “A water leak, shit. _Shit._ We must have broken something. God, I hope insurance covers time travel, those things are so fucking expensive.”

“Didn’t you say you lived on the twentieth floor?” Pete asked, staring out Patrick’s window. Patrick nodded hesitantly and Pete cleared his throat. “Oh. Well. Maybe your apartment moved to the ground floor.”

“Excuse me?” Patrick demanded before following Pete’s gaze and freezing. 

Just outside his window, inches below where the flooding in his apartment stopped, was water. Which, if Patrick’s apartment truly had magically changed to the first floor, would imply that the street outside had flooded. But if he was still on the twentieth floor, that would imply--

“Holy shit,” Patrick said weakly, stumbling to the window, water sloshing around his legs, and looking out. “Holy _shit.”_

He was still on the twentieth floor, he could tell. Directly under him, giving a stomach churning _whoosh_ of nausea, was twenty stories worth of water, choppy in the wind, like the entirely of Lake Michigan transplanted to the streets of Chicago. 

Patrick gaped. Floating by his window, drifting in the water, were the debris of thousands and thousands of flooded out homes and businesses: wood from what looked like broken window frames, paper, soaked and unusable, clothing and bedding and _lawn chairs_ \--all the remains of what once was Patrick’s Chicago. 

Here and there were boats: kayaks from lake homes and actual yachts, floating down the river that the streets had become. People were picking things out of the water or looking in windows, possibly for stranded people. Like Patrick and Pete. 

“Look,” Pete whispered, pointing up. Patrick craned his neck to follow his gaze and his heart sank. Up on rooftops of skyscrapers were people, crowded together. Patrick could see the smoke whipping in the wind from what must have been signal fires, and bedsheets formed _SOS._ Flying above them were military helicopters, news helicopters, like this had just happened hours ago. 

Patrick looked down to the water and up to Pete again, who held out the time traveling tube in what looked like a peace offering. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Patrick said, and grabbed ahold of it. 

\-----

**Author's Note:**

> follow me down the yellow brick road at smalltalktorture.tumblr.com


End file.
